Dr Good and Mr Lucky
by gembones
Summary: In this sequel to Booth in Therapy, Booth and Brennan continue their discussion of what therapy has revealed about Booth's childhood trauma and its effects on his adult relationships, especially theirs in its early years. Thanks to the reviewers of my first story for their encouragement; rather than one long story, this continuation will appear in short chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky: Preamble**

He affixed the diaper tabs with a flourish, and drew the mini Flyers jersey down over his son's round belly. "There ya go, Champ!" he said, picking Hank up from the changing table, and hoisting him high in the air. The baby's eyes widened in excitement and pleasure, and his tiny mouth went slack in anticipation. _That's my boy,_ he thought, jiggling the sturdy little body ever so carefully. Hank squealed and wriggled in delight, pudgy arms and legs flailing.

"You're getting him all worked up," his wife scolded from somewhere behind him. "Extremely inadvisable right before nap time."

He lowered Hank to his shoulder, and rubbed his back soothingly. "Mommy's right, as usual, big guy. Fact of life. Get used to it."

He walked into the living area just as Christine let out an indignant "Oooh!" She turned an angry-pixie face up to his. "Grandpa won again, Daddy!"

"I can't help it, Sweet Pea! Luck's just on my side today." Max leaned over the game board toward his grumpy granddaughter. "You wouldn't want me to let you win, would you, Pumpkin? Where would be the fun in that?"

Christine folded her arms across her chest, raised her chin and glared at her grandfather.

"Just be glad he didn't win your allowance, too," Bones said, clearing away her game piece and standing up from the table.

" _She_ has an allowance?" Max asked his daughter. "She's… what? all of five years old!"

"Grandpa can't win my allowance," Christine said smugly. " _That_ would be gambling, and gambling is bad. _I_ don't gamble."

"Good for you," Max praised her warmly. "But, just out of curiosity," he said, s _otto voce_ to his daughter, "how much do you give the kid?"

For all answer, Bones smiled, and bending to his level, bussed his cheek. "Thanks, Dad."

He waved her away, and reached up to take Hank from his kibitzing son-in-law. "Come to Grandpa, Bruiser. Christine's mad at me right now, but I bet she'll give _you_ a game."

"Oh, Grandpa," Christine said, with fond condescension. "Hank's too little to play!"

"I'll be his muscle. I know: we'll be a team! Team Tom Foolery!"

Christine jumped up, her grudge forgotten. "And, I'll be Hildy Highjinks this time. You don't mind, Mommy, do you?"

"No, of course not, sweetheart." Bones bent down and planted a kiss on the glossy golden hair. "Daddy and I are going out. Just for a walk, to get some fresh air. Hank can play _one_ game, and then he has to take his nap. He can sleep out here in his playpen today so you can keep an eye on him. Grandpa can help. All right?"

"All right," she echoed distantly, her head already in the new game. "Who goes first, Grandpa?"

"Well, 'H' comes before 'T' in the alphabet, so that would be…?"

"Hildy!"

With Christine busy taking her turn, Bones waggled her phone meaningfully at Max. He nodded impatiently in reply, and made vigorous shooing motions toward the door.

They crept into the foyer, grabbed their light jackets from the hall tree, and let themselves out. "That was a smooth getaway," he said, as they emerged onto the front walkway.

She shook her head ruefully. "My father, master of misdirection! Now you see 'em, now you don't!"

"At least this time his show was all in a good cause." The morning's rain had moved off, leaving in its wake cooler temperatures and a brightening sky. The grass and shrubs still glistened where the occasional droplet caught the sun, but the long drive down to the road was dry and free of twigs and leaves. "The weather cleared up after all," he said as they set off side by side.

"Admit it," she said, playfully punching him in the tricep. "You were hoping the forecast would prove wrong."

"Nah. This conversation was going to happen, rain or shine. I'd rather be out here in the open, getting some exercise, than cooped up inside."

"So… I assume you have a specific destination in mind?"

"You assume correctly," he told her, without further elaboration. They had nearly reached the road, but were still shielded from public view by a stand of trees when he stopped and took her hand. "But, first…" He drew her to him, and wrapping her in his arms, kissed her soundly.

She leaned back from him, a bit breathless, a look of pleasant surprise on her face. "What brought that on? Not that I'm complaining!"

"It's kind of a hedge bet: you might not be so receptive later when you've heard what I've got to say."

She tilted her head to one side, and studied him intently, a speculative gleam in her eye. "If this is your way of trying to pique my curiosity, I must congratulate you on your strategy. I was intrigued before, but now, frankly, I'm all agog."

"Sometimes, Bones," he said, only half-joking, "you terrify me."

She laughed heartily, and threaded her arm through his. "Which way do we go?"


	2. Chapter 2 Booth's Legacy

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky : Booth's Legacy**

They turned left at the bottom of the drive onto the longer stretch of their local road. There were no sidewalks, but as the area was not thickly settled and traffic correspondingly light, it was less of an annoyance than it might have been. They walked on the side of on-coming vehicles, staying close to the rough shoulder rather than on it. From behind one of the neighboring houses came the steady growl of a lawn mower, and high in the trees, the sentinel crows raucously spread the news of their passage.

"So…" she said, when they had fallen into an easy rhythm, "Same ground rules as before? No interrupting unless strictly necessary?"

"Nah. I think we can do this more conversation-style."

She gave his arm a grateful squeeze. "I was hoping you'd say that. I've been investigating some of the terms and ideas you mentioned last time, with a particular emphasis on the 'wounded inner child' syndrome."

"Why am I not surprised," he said.

"Because," she answered inevitably, "you know that I am in the habit of thoroughly researching topics that show promise of yielding practical information or increasing my stock of general knowledge."

"Right…" Another tip-off might have been the books bristling with multi-colored post-it notes, the new subscription to _Psychology Today_ , and the print-out of articles downloaded from the internet scattered around the house. He wouldn't be astonished to discover she now had a better grasp of the subject than he did. "So, I'm curious: now that you've done so much reading, what's your take? Does the approach hold up, or is just so much new-age bunko?"

"Well, it's not science, for certain, but I find using traditional story structures and established archetypes as loose equivalents of psychological processes that have no objective reality fascinating and potentially quite valuable. Myths, creation stories, fairy tales, all have a long history of bringing a semblance of order to chaos. They don't produce truth, as science defines it, but, if comprehensive enough, they can spark insight and understanding."

"So, you're not put off by talk about a self that splits into pieces and has to be made whole again?"

She shrugged. "I'd prefer a less metaphorical formulation, but, given the object of study, I accept imprecision as a functional necessity."

They were approaching an intersection, and as there were cars stopped on both sides of the crossroad and the pedestrian light was flashing red, she slowed her steps. "Left, here," he told her, steering her off in that direction. While not one of the town's thoroughfares, the road saw considerable traffic and was in consequence lined on both sides with ribbons of asphalt.

"Are you going to tell me where we're headed?"

He didn't mistake the note of irritation in her voice. She probably hadn't appreciated being manhandled, even if gently. "You'll figure it out."

She drew back for a better look at him, and eyed him narrowly. "Are you planning on telling me anything at all today, or are you going to be 'Booth, Man of Mystery' out and back?"

He grimaced in apology. "I guess I'm just not sure how to go about this, where to start… How about you ask me a question, you know, to get the ball rolling…"

Her expression brightened immediately, her eyes wide and darting as she considered the array of possibilities. She settled on, "Has 'splitting' been part of your experience, and, if so, how many sub-selves have you identified?"

He couldn't help it: he burst out laughing. "I don't have 'multiple personality disorder,' if that's what you're thinking. I just have the standard legacy from childhood abuse: an unresolved inner conflict. So, to answer your question: two sub-selves. Disappointed?"

"Don't be absurd! A dichotomous personality is enough in itself to deal with. I've noticed in the literature that, in the interests of simplifying discussion, each half-self is given a designation that reflects the personality traits associated with it."

"Right. In my case, Dr. Cameron and I came up with 'Tim' — short for 'victim' — and 'Victor.' Polar opposites, but two sides of the same coin."

"You're mixing your metaphors, but I know what you mean. I understand the 'Tim' part well enough: your father beat and humiliated you, and, as a child, you had no defense against him. He was bigger, stronger. He provided the food and shelter you needed to survive. You only had one option: to submit, both physically and emotionally. But the 'Victor' part…" She shook her head, at a loss.

"It's not obvious, I know. Dr. Cameron explained it this way: a child's reaction to abuse isn't just one thing. It's not _just_ shame and grief; it's _also_ rage and rebellion. The child is torn between the two: on the one hand, the abuser is an adult, and consequently, endowed with complete authority, while on the other, the child has the very strong sense that he is being wronged. In the end, circumstances take the decision out of his hands, leaving the question unresolved."

"And setting up an oscillation between the two positions." She nodded her head, thoughtful. "Yes, I see. A painful and unsettling situation."

"A situation young children aren't equipped to handle. Children need certainty. Something is either black or white, true or false, right or wrong. You heard Christine back at the house: gambling is bad. Period. No exceptions. So, from the time the abuse began until I went to live with Pops, my 'Victor' self was almost completely repressed. I was in 'Tim' mode: sad, afraid, accommodating, full of self-doubt, anxious. Whatever rage I did feel, I directed at myself. I wasn't exaggerating that day in Sweets office when I admitted to considering suicide. At my lowest point, I despised myself through and through, and had no hope my life would ever improve. But then, thank God, Pops swooped in to the rescue, and things began to look up."

She had been gazing down at her feet as they walked, her head tilted toward him so as not to miss a word. When he paused for breath, she glanced up and caught sight of a canary yellow diamond-shaped warning sign not too far ahead. "So…" she said, slanting him a laughing look, " _that_ 's where we're going!"

"Took you long enough. Hey, whoa there!" he protested, pretending to be staggered by her elbow-jab to the ribs. "No roughhousing on the sidewalk! You want to cause an accident?"

She fought back a smile at his antics, and, when he reached out a hand for hers, let him take it. They set off again, their clasped hands swinging freely between them as if they were, for all the world, no more than a couple of kids.


	3. Chapter 3: Swingers

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky — Swingers**

On a weekday, the warning sign above the crosswalk would have been flashing yellow, and early in the morning and again in mid-afternoon, there would have been a uniformed guard on hand for added safety, but as it was a Saturday, they were obliged to negotiate the crossing on their own. On the other side, an asphalt pathway wended its way into a small wood of oak, hickory and beech. In the undergrowth, bits of trash could be spotted among last autumn's leaves: here, a pencil stub, a scrap of candy wrapper, a dented soda can, there, a fuzzy hair elastic, a shard of plastic ruler, a crushed juice box. They emerged finally onto the crest of a small hill, at the bottom of which sprawled a one-story elementary school, red brick throughout but, as the different style of windows attested, an original building extended by a later addition.

Booth would have chosen this school for Christine if they'd offered full-day kindergarten, but as that was not an option, they'd enrolled her elsewhere. When the weather was fine and Bones needed a break, he often packed their daughter into the SUV and brought her here to enjoy the school playground. Sometimes they shared the space with other thoughtful husbands and their children, but mostly they had the place to themselves. Now, as he and Bones approached, he could make out two little boys tearing wildly around the fenced-in area, and at the curb, a disheveled young woman loading a tote bag full of plastic toys into the rear of a hatchback. It was a promising sight.

Although it proved no easy feat, the boys had been rounded up and wrangled into their car seats by the time he and Bones reached the parking area. They exchanged nods of greeting with the woman as she drove away past them and up the hill. In her hurry, she had left the gate standing open. Booth escorted Bones in, guiding her around the open trash barrel where he knew, from experience, a platoon of yellow jackets would be foraging among the discarded drink cups and empty snack packages. On the edge of the play area, she stopped and looked around her, nodding approvingly at the numerous and well-spaced pieces of equipment on site. The play structure with its elevated walkways, climbing walls, miniature club house and chute-like slides was a recent installation, new-looking still, its primary colors cheerful and loud. The monkey bars, merry-go-round and ride-on toys showed more wear, but were well-maintained and perfectly safe. Three park benches had been ranged for the comfort of visiting adults at intervals along the perimeter, and he gestured toward the nearest in silent invitation, but, with a brief smile and shake of her head, she moved deeper into the playground, toward one of the far corners where two rows of swings hung motionless in full sun.

As one row of swings had been destined for the use of the older children, she was able to find a seat that wasn't too low to the ground for comfort. She dropped into it with a sheepish look up at him, and digging the toe of her boot into the loose sand below, set the swing barely going. He crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned a shoulder into the beam support, content to watch her glide gently back and forth. Her arms wrapped round the metal chains, she looked so adorable, he was tempted to get out his phone and snap a picture, already imagining the sensation such a shot of the celebrated Dr. Temperance Brennan would cause on Instagram, but he remembered, in time, a certain picture she possessed of him cooking buck-naked in the kitchen, and the urge died a quick death.

"Hodgins took Angela to a playground on their first date," she offered, breaking into his thoughts.

"Seriously? That's what millionaire Bug-Boy did to impress his dream girl?"

"It seemed an odd choice to me as well, but Angela reported it was the best date she'd ever been on. Apparently, they had a lot of fun."

"Squints and artists," he said, with a shake of the head, "there's just no telling with them."

"No telling them what?"

Someday he'd learn. "No telling them anything they don't want to hear," he improvised, abandoning his support and moving behind her. "Hold on to the chains."

She shot him a glance over her shoulder. "Why?"

"Don't argue for once." For a wonder, she did as she was bid. When she had the links firmly in hand, he twisted the chains together until there was no more slack. "Tuck your legs up as high as you can," he told her, and let go.

A startled cry escaped her as the swing spun rapidly around, playing the twist out, only to jerk to a sudden stop and twist back on itself, turning her in the other direction. Eventually, all the potential energy was spent, and the swing rocked side to side one last time, and was still. He had come round front to check her reaction, and was rewarded with a bright, beaming face. At this juncture, Christine would have said "Again!" but as Bones didn't, he put it to her as a question. Her widening smile was all the answer he needed.

The novelty wore off much more quickly with his wife than it ever did with their daughter. After the third time round, she was happy just to sit and sway. He was leery of taking the swing next to her, not trusting the hardware to hold his weight, but when he put the matter to the test, he found he need not have worried: neither he nor the equipment suffered any harm.

This time alone having been specifically set aside for him to share what he'd learned in therapy, he suspected she would not be satisfied with the little he had volunteered already, but he was enjoying the respite from navel-gazing and would not, he decided, be the one to bring the subject up again. Instead, he asked, "Did you have a swing set in your yard when you were a girl?"

"Hmm?" She had tilted her chin up to the sky and closed her eyes, the better to feel the sun on her face. "No, but there were swings at a nearby park. I'd forgotten until now, but that spinning brought it back to me: Max used to twist the chains like that for me, too. I'd go around so fast, the trees and grass were nothing more than a green and brown blur. It was terrifying… and exhilarating."

"I can just picture him, explaining torque, rotational velocity and angular momentum as you were being spun dizzy."

"Of course," she said, as if such behavior were completely natural. Well, maybe it should be. "How about you? Did you have your own dedicated swing set?"

"Nah, we used the public swings, too. And, they didn't have flexible plastic seats like these, either. No, sir. Those babies were old-school: planks of solid oak at least two inches thick. You could plant your feet on those seats and swing standing up, and when it got crowded, you could take another kid on your lap, and swing doubled up. But the very best thing was swinging as high up as you could get — pumping, pumping, pumping — and then at the very highest point…"

"… the apogee," she supplied.

"… the.. ah .. apogee, right, you'd let go and launch yourself in the air." He smiled to himself, reliving in memory that awesome sensation of being in flight and the awful challenge of preparing to land.

"That strikes me as a most reckless and foolhardy behavior, nearly certain to result in fractures to the tibia, fibula, ulna and radius at the very least. And, the possibility of concussion, too, cannot be ruled out. I'm astonished that the supervising adults in attendance allowed this to happen."

"It was a different era, Bones," he said, surprised to find himself feeling nostalgic.

They sat on in companionable silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. He was remembering the enormously-tall, to him at the time, metal slide and the inventive ways they had put it to use: the daring head first, or backwards slides, the trains of interlocking bodies sliding down together, the running up the slide, agile as monkeys, the pouring of sand down from the platform when the metal got too hot. Good times.

Coming back from his reverie, he saw she had resumed sun-worshipper pose. As if she could sense his gaze, she said, "The heat feels good."

"Mmm," he agreed, leaning back to catch some rays. "It's time like these I'm glad I'm not a vampire."

She looked at him out of the corner of one eye, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"Vampires. You know, blood-sucking creatures of the night, can't go out by day without being burnt to a crisp? What?'" he said, when she turned to stare at him as if he'd gone mad. "You can quote obscure lines from Shakespeare at me, but I can't make a pop culture reference?"

She opened her mouth to deliver a no-doubt-blistering retort, but abruptly shut it again, and leaned back, closing her eyes once more. "Tell me about Victor."


	4. Chapter 4: Epiphany

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky — Epiphany**

 _Victor?_ he thought. _Victor who_? He didn't number even one Victor among his acquaintance, let alone one they might have in common. And then, he remembered. "You know Victor's not a person, right? It's just a short-hand way of talking about one aspect of my personality."

"Yes, yes, we've established that," she said, impatiently. "What I want to know is: when does he make an appearance in the story?"

"Now's as good a time as any, I guess. So… after I went to live with Pops, I started, very gradually, to recover. Pops was a tough guy in some ways, but he was always fair, and, best of all, he was predictable. You always knew where you stood with him. He laid down the rules, and as long as you toed the line, he had no beef with you. I was able to relax for the first time in years, and slowly I regained enough confidence in myself to look to the future with hope and even guarded optimism.

"At the same time, I couldn't completely forget Tim. I'd been him for a long time after all, and I was terrified that, somehow, I'd slip up and become that pathetic wimp again. It was _that_ fear that made me flip the script. I mean," he said, anticipating trouble, "I did a 180." Not an improvement. "I went from one extreme to the other." That was clear, finally. "I made a conscious decision to 'fake it until I could make it.' If, before, I was dependent, from then on, I would stand on my own two feet and ask nothing of anyone. If I'd been submissive, now I would take charge, I would be firmly in command, both of myself and of any situation I found myself in. I would lead, not follow, go after the good things in life instead of waiting for them to be doled out to me on someone else's timetable. I was never going to be on the losing side again."

For a brief time, the only sound to be heard was the creaking of the chains as the swings moved in shallow arcs, back and forth. She was the one to speak first. "I know what it's like to feel powerless, to be at someone else's mercy." She said the words softly, as if the effort cost her.

He went very still, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he ventured, "You mean, when you were in foster care?"

"Then, too, I suppose, but, no, that's not what I mean. I was in El Salvador, more than a decade ago, working to identify the remains of a young girl who'd been shot in the head, and dumped in a well. A cop came into the tent, and told me to stop, and when I wouldn't, he kidnapped me with the help of two other men. They held me in a windowless cell for three days, and on each of those days, he threatened me with the same fate that girl had suffered. I determined, then and there, if I survived, I would never be such an easy victim again."

"That's what decided you to take up martial arts training?"

She nodded. "Like you, I learned to defend myself. I wasn't going to be bullied ever again, if I could help it."

"I don't remember ever hearing that story, Bones." A shrug was his only answer. He pushed his swing toward hers, and slipping his arm into the space between her body and the chain, linked their swings together. "I'm sorry that happened to you. Really sorry."

"Don't be. It taught me a valuable lesson. It pushed me to improve my stamina, strength and physical skills so I had at least some chance of protecting myself in a fight."

"And thus was the badass Brennan born." That drew a smile, if only a wry one. He loosed his hold on her swing, and drifted off to the side. "I can see where you'd think our situations were parallel, but there's really a huge difference."

"How so?"

"In your case, you were preparing yourself to face outside attack, assault from other people. Yours was a completely rational response — no surprise there — with potential positive outcomes. But in my case, I was building a defense against myself, Victor fighting off Tim, if you will. That's your classic no-win situation."

"I see your point. It's similar to playing chess against yourself: even when you win, you lose."

He couldn't contain his shock and horror. "People play chess against themselves?"

"Of course. It's a very effective way to study standard strategies and tactics, such as opening gambits and possible end games." She waved her hand dismissively. "Bad example, on my part. I forgot who I was talking to."

"I don't have to know how to move the pieces, or what to call that little castle thingy to appreciate your analogy. It's a good illustration of a hollow victory. Victor was not the whole me; he was Tim's opposite number, a function of how much I hated Tim and wanted to hide him away. Regardless of the success I achieved — the merit badges, promotions, commendations, citations for valor — it was never enough to silence Tim completely. His voice was always in my head, whispering it was all a fluke, a lucky break, unearned, undeserved. Soon, it wasn't enough to be on the football team, I had to be captain. It wasn't enough to be strong, I had to be stoic. A pretty good sharpshooter? Hell, no, I had to be rated first. I was driven to be the best: top dog, king of the hill every time. That was the only way I could shut Tim up, and even then, the reprieve only lasted a while."

He was amazed that the words poured out of him so freely. As a rule, he was not given to making speeches. A co-ed he'd dated for a while had called him 'laconic' (he'd had to look the word up, and so it'd stuck with him), and she'd hit the nail on the head. Even as an instructor, he didn't usually lecture, preferring to teach by example and communicate in short, targeted bursts. He supposed, in this instance, he wasn't so much _talking_ as telling a story, a long, convoluted story about two guys and their love / hate relationship. That was probably the reason he felt relatively easy.

"What I'm hearing," she said, sounding disturbingly like Dr. Cameron in both language and tone, "is that you _knew_ , intellectually, that you were succeeding in your endeavors, but you didn't _feel_ it, not emotionally. Is that right?"

Knowing her genius, he ought not to have been impressed, but he was. "100%, Bones."

"So, from _that_ and other things you've said, I deduce that Tim represents what is traditionally viewed as feminine — emotion, weakness, irrationality, subservience — while all the stereotypical masculine traits — intellect, strength, reason, command — belong to Victor."

At some point in the last few minutes, the sunshine had ceased to be entirely pleasant; the skin across his cheeks and brow felt hot and tight; maybe he was burning after all. "Sun screen," he muttered, sitting up and giving his face a good rub. "Never leave home without it. And water. Water and sun screen."

She slid her swing toward him, and bumped his shoulder with her own. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That was not my intention."

"Yeah? Well, just so you know, men don't like hearing they have a 'feminine side.' It's… it's _ooky._ "

She regarded him blankly. "I don't know what that means."

He didn't really know himself. The word had just popped into his head. "It… ah… means a general feeling that something's not right. Something's creepy, weird."

She pinned him with a look. "Am I likely to find this adjective in the Merriam-Webster standard dictionary?"

"In the dictionary? Sure… I mean, probably. Or… ah… maybe not. Yet."

"Ooky," she repeated, biting back a grin.

"Yeah, so… where were we?" he said, anxious to move along. "Masculine and feminine. More convenient terms, right? Ends of the spectrum, structure for organizing thought…"

"Right," she said, half-smiling still but willing, apparently, to let him off the hook. "It's a conceptual pairing, a starting point for reflection and investigation. In alchemy, for example, the duality is expressed as king versus queen. The Greeks opposed the sun god, Apollo to the moon goddess, Diana. It's a very basic, and effective, way of ordering phenomena. The designations are not all that critical. We can substitute yin / yang, if you'd rather …"

"Or, Tim / Victor."

"Yes, or… Oh! Oh!" She straightened suddenly, and, with a little bounce, turned to him with rounded eyes.

"What? What?" he said, as she continued to stare at him, jaw slack. "Are you hurt? Were you stung?"

"No, no." Her lips curved into a high-wattage smile, reassuring him. "I just… I had an epiphany!"

"An epiphany, hunh?" He didn't like the look of that gleam in her eye. It usually spelled trouble.

She was nodding emphatically. "It came to me, just now: the reason you don't want to be called Seeley!"


	5. Chapter 5 - Blessed

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky — Blessed**

Booth didn't know what he'd expected, but, as brilliant flashes of insight went, this seemed very small potatoes. "That's it? That's the big reveal?" He watched her smile dim, and her eyes lose some of their sparkle. He felt like a cad. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to rain on your parade. Go on: tell me your theory. Please," he added, seeing her hesitation. "I'm sure it's something deep and meaningful."

That did the trick. "It's simple, really, as you intimated. Seeley is what your family and long-time friends, like Cam and Rebecca, call you. It's also what your father called you, the name you associate with childhood and misery. The 'Tim' in your therapy story could just as easily be called Seeley. By refusing to be called by that name, you signal your rejection of that self-image, just as Victor rejects and tries to bury Tim."

 _Right, as usual. Fact of life._ "I'll say this, Bones: Dr. Cameron's got nothing on you. I mean," he said, as her brows drew down in confusion, "he made the very same point. And, I'll admit, I was impressed by his analysis. He said the way I insist on using my last name exclusively is a symptom of the problem: I want to be only half of who I am." He laughed shortly. "And, here I was thinking all along that Seeley's just a stupid name."

"I don't think it's stupid. It means 'blessed.' Did you know that?"

"Yeah," he said on a sigh. "That doesn't help."

Fortunately for him, her phone pinged at just that moment, so he wasn't required to elaborate. She retrieved her phone from her jacket pocket, and checked her message: it was from Max. "Oh, look," she said, her expression softening. She held the screen up for him to see the photo of Hank lying asleep on his back in the playpen, his little arms crooked at the elbow and raised shoulder high as if he had been forced to surrender to sleep at gunpoint. "Checking in," Max had texted. "All A-ok. C U soon."

"What time's it getting to be?" he asked, as she took a last fond gander at their son. The final third of the message struck him as a subtle hint that they should not prolong their absence.

"Just past four," she said, in evident surprise.

"Can't be! Really? It's been two hours already?"

"According to my phone, which I have no reason to mistrust as it doesn't appear to be malfunctioning in any other respect." She backed up the swing, and picking up her feet, glided forward one last time, hopped off as the seat reached apogee, and landed nimbly on her feet. "We'd better be heading back," she said, rather wistfully, he thought. "This was a very good idea on your part, Booth. I will have to tell Angela when I see her tomorrow that she was quite right: swinging is a most enjoyable activity."

"And, the best date you've ever had?" he prompted.

"I couldn't possibly arrive at a conclusive determination without reviewing all the dates I've been on, an undertaking which would require entirely too much time and effort to be worthwhile."

He followed her through the gate, and latched it closed behind them. "It was a joke, Bones."

"Oh! I see. Yes." Her mouth tipped up to one side, and she favored him with a knowing look. "It's funny because it's absurd to suggest that an evening spent at a playground is comparable to an evening at the symphony, or the opera, or dining in a five-star restaurant. Yes, very amusing. Good one, Booth!"

It wasn't until they had reached the top of the rise and plunged into the shade of the little wood that she brought their conversation round again to the ostensible reason for their afternoon stroll. "What you said earlier, about the meaning of your Christian name not helping, I don't understand…"

He blew out a long, noisy breath. "Yeah, I was kind of hoping you hadn't picked up on that."

"If you'd rather not…"

"It's not that I mind. It's… I'm not sure how well I can explain. I'll probably make a muddle of it."

"You won't know until you try," she said, unanswerable as ever.

They were held up at the crosswalk by a steady stream of cars traveling in both directions, but eventually, they were safely on the other side of the road and he could procrastinate no longer. He stuffed his fists into the pockets of his jacket, and began, "One of the things that made a strong impression on me growing up was my father repeating that I would never amount to much on my own. That was a fairly constant theme in his ranting, that I was going to need a lot of luck to get anywhere. What I took away from that… assessment, I guess you'd call it, is that I couldn't make things happen, I was at the mercy of mysterious forces that could work for, or against, me pretty much at random.

"It's like the opening of that fairy tale Christine likes so much — Sleeping Beauty, I think — where the princess, at her christening, receives a whole bunch of valuable gifts from her fairy godmothers, and everything's hunky dory until the one fairy who wasn't invited crashes the party

and lays a curse on the baby. That's the nature of luck in a nutshell: it's uncontrollable. You may think you've recruited all the fairies to your side, but, despite your very best efforts, there's always one or two you've overlooked. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

She did not immediately reply, just walked on in deep concentration, her eyes lowered, her brows loosely knit. She was silent so long, he was all but resigned to having to try again with another example and different words, but then she said, decisively, "So, _that's_ why you're a gambler," and it dawned on him that far from being puzzled, she had not only understood completely but had taken the next few logical leaps ahead as well.

The realization brought him, literally, up short. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?" She met his gaze, all innocence.

"Go from point A to point Z?"

"I don't know, precisely, what you mean by that, but I expect you're referring to the chain of reasoning that lead to my conclusion. I deduced from what you said just now, and what you said previously about Victor, that being _only_ lucky, having little or no control over your life, having to trust fickle, inscrutable others to shower you with blessings at their whim, is a trait that you associate with Tim, that part of your personality which you do your utmost to deny. Effective repression requires a great expenditure of energy, and when energy stocks run low, as must happen occasionally, particularly in times of stress or unhappiness, the usually dominant self is unable to repress his alter-ego, and… how did you put it before? … the script flips. Tim is the gambler in you, the one who relies not on his abilities — that's Victor — but on his luck. He surrenders control of his fate, and, here's where the addiction comes in, he surrenders it unconditionally. _Quod erat demonstrandum_."

He was so blown-away, it didn't even occur to him to protest her use of Latin. "That clinches it," he said, when he was finally able to pick his jaw up off the ground. "Who needs Dr. Cameron when I've got you?"

She smiled, justifiably proud, and taking his arm, set him once again in motion. "I infer that Dr. Cameron was of the same opinion?"

"It's uncanny, Bones! He said the same thing, practically word for word. If you ever get bored being the leading light in the field of forensic anthropology, you've got a solid future waiting for you in psychotherapy."

"No doubt you're right, but I find I'm satisfied with talented amateur status. Did Dr. Cameron happen to tie your inability to accept praise in with your fear that 'being blessed' underlies all your accomplishments?"

"Wow, great minds really _do_ think alike. Yeah, he puts my 'discomfort with forms of recognition' — that's how the man talks — down to an unconscious fear of being an imposter, of being rewarded not on the basis of merit but of unfair advantage. It's like you said before: intellectually, I know I work hard, _very_ hard, to get ahead, and I deserve any advancement that comes my way, but, emotionally, I can't trust it. I shy away."

Her only answer was a number of slow nods: yes, she followed, yes, she concurred with the expert. He marveled again at the quickness of her mind, the acuity of her understanding. _A fact of life_ , true, but he doubted he'd ever really get used to it, and, he realized somewhat to his surprise, he was good with it, better than good, in fact. She was unpredictable in the best of ways: refreshing in her candor, astonishing in the breadth and depth of her knowledge, delightful even in her misunderstanding of commonplace idioms. Naturally, without effort, she was forever making the world wondrous and new for him. Just now, he couldn't begin to guess what theory, insight, or question that super-computer-brain of hers was developing, but he fully expected it would be well worth the wait.


	6. Chapter 6 Spelling B

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky — Spelling B.**

They were very nearly to their turn-off when she hugged his arm closer to her and said, "It's curious to me —counterintuitive actually — that you ascribe negative connotations to 'being lucky.' Generally speaking, it's considered an excellent thing."

"Don't get me wrong: I appreciate good luck as much as the next guy, and as for 'getting lucky,' well…" He earned himself a complacent smile and puckish glance with that one; yeah, no explanation needed. "But, it eats away at your self-confidence always to be pointed out as 'that lucky so-and-so.' Let me give you an example. First, a question: how many times over the years have you been told that you're lucky to have me in your life, as a partner, boyfriend, husband, whatever?"

She gave the matter serious thought, tilting her head to one side and looking up at the sky as if the answer might be written there.

"You can't come up with a number," he told her as the silence lengthened, "because it's never happened. Zero times. Zilch. Nada."

"No, no, that's not right. It happened once, certainly… I was just trying to remember… I think it was Agent Perrotta. I couldn't swear to it in a court of law, but I think that's right. She said I was lucky to have you as my partner, and, of course, I agreed with her."

"So, okay, whoop-tee-do, one time. Now, ask yourself how many times _I've_ been told I'm lucky to know you, work with you, be married to you? Got a number in mind? No? Well, neither do I, and know why? Because I've lost count." He had been going for light and humorous, but had finished up a little too vehement at the end there, because, rational or not, it galled him that people accepted as given that he wasn't good enough for her, wasn't her equal. And, the worst of all on the best day of his life was standing at the altar as that dazzling vision in white that was his Bones walked down the aisle toward him and to have Aldo, the man he'd chosen to officiate at the service, lean in and whisper in his ear, 'You're a lucky man, Booth.' On his freaking wedding day!

As if she was telepathic as well as brilliant, she said, "But, that's not a reflection on you, Booth: it's a culturally-conditioned comment, not a personal one. Angela explained it to me: it's customary in our society to congratulate men on their good fortune in having secured a mate, but considered offensive to make the same remark to their romantic partner, always providing she's a woman, of course. In the latter situation, the accepted practice is to offer best wishes. It's not a rational state of affairs, but social conventions are not required to satisfy the demands of logic."

As they were now only steps away from Chesterfield Road, he thought briefly of suggesting they extend their walk — there was still so much to say — but as it would hardly be considerate to leave Max hostage to two small children, however dear to him they might be, he held his piece. By unspoken agreement, they turned to the right at the intersection, and began the last stretch of their trek. "Let's say I grant you the 'romantic' aspect," he said, picking up where she'd left off. "That covers, at most, only half of the time."

"If you're referring now to our professional partnership, then it's objectively true that you're fortunate to be working with me. _That_ _'s_ not a personal observation, either: most of the scientific community and all reputable law-enforcement agencies would jump at the chance to collaborate with me. _And_ , before you object that you are likewise an outstanding partner and that it should be acknowledged by the public at large that I am equally fortunate, I will just point out that it is universally known that I have an extreme dislike for being told what is already abundantly obvious."

He let that sink in a moment, then, just to make sure, said, "Let me get this straight: no one tells you you're lucky to work with me because they know it would irritate you? You're really going to go with that?"

"Yes. Since my good fortune in this area goes without saying, pointing it out to me would be a waste of my valuable time. Whether it would, in addition, be a waste of breath would depend entirely on who was making the unsolicited observation."

"You know, Bones," he said, slipping his arm from her clasp so he could wrap it around her shoulder instead. "I _think_ that may be one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."

She shot him a sideways glance, then, shook her head, and did her best to suppress a smile. "But you still have a few doubts, is that what you're claiming?"

"Well, it would be great if you could spell it out for me, just this once."

"If it makes you feel better." He jostled her shoulder by way of encouragement. "Okay, here goes." She proceeded to fire rapid bursts of alphabet at him, so quickly he nearly couldn't reconstitute the words.

He groaned out loud. "I asked for that."

"You certainly did." She slid her arm around his waist, and laughed up at him. "Funny, right?"

"Hilarious. At least… the joke was the _way_ you said it, not _what_ you said, right?"

She grabbed a belt loop on his jeans, the better to shake him. "You're shameless, you know that? You're not going to be satisfied until I say the actual words! All right, then: 'I am the luckiest woman in the world.' There! Happy?"

"Ecstatic." He grinned down at her. "Luckiest woman, meet the luckiest man."

With her free hand, she swatted him none-too-gently on the upper chest, and straightening up, released him. Taking the hint, he let her go, and they completed the rest of their walk side by side but not touching, the model of middle-aged propriety.


	7. Chapter 7 Home Again

**Dr. Good and Mr. Lucky — Home again**

When they came to the end of their driveway, she said, "Did I somehow miss the part that was supposed to land you in trouble?"

Oh, _that_. He'd completely forgotten. "I assumed we'd get around to discussing how all this… _stuff_ _…_ affected my relationship with… er… women."

"Women," she echoed with apparent calm. "Beginning with your mother, I presume?"

"Well, yeah, she's part of it. As well as my … ah… adult relationships."

"Do the girls you seduced under the high school bleachers qualify as adults, or are they considered adolescents?"

They were well within sight of the house now; a few yards to go. He picked up his pace ever so slightly. "They might figure in the discussion, yeah. Briefly," he amended.

"I see. And, you anticipated that your history with women, as viewed through the lens of therapy, was going to upset me somehow. What would the reason for that be?"

He turned into the trellised passageway that led to the front door. "I don't think we have time just now to do the subject justice. It's… kind of complicated." He was an arm's length from the handle when she caught him by the jacket sleeve.

"Not so fast," she said, holding him in place as she stepped around and into his personal space. "I believe you have something of mine."

This was so out of left field, he could only stare at her blankly. He could read nothing of use in her uncompromising gaze. Finally, in desperation, he tried, "Your… ah… heart?"

She grabbed a fistful of jacket in each hand, and pulled him so close, they were practically nose to nose. "Don't try to charm your way out of this," she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. "And, don't play the innocent, either. Not three hours ago, you recklessly wagered that by this time today I would not be receptive to physical affection from you, and you were wrong. I should take pity on you, seeing you're a gambling addict, but I'm not feeling generous, see?" Another tug, and their lips were mere inches apart. "So, it's time you made good, buster."

And, he did. He paid his forfeit, and then some, on account. She had loosed her grip on the fabric over his heart, and slipped her hand up over his shoulder and into the hair at the nape of his neck in a caress he had come to know and love as an invitation to hold her more tightly, kiss her more deeply. He could hardly have been blamed, under the circumstances, to have missed the sound of the front door opening or the muffled giggling of their little girl.

"All right, all right, that's enough, break it up," Max was saying, in fed-up-parent mode. "Get in the house this instant, young lady. You have a brood to tend to. And, don't give me any of your sass," he added sternly, as, a roguish smile on her face, she whisked up a tittering Christine and disappeared into the house. "As for you," Max said severely, taking a step back and clearing out of the doorway. "Thank you." He slapped Booth heartily on the back. "I missed my chance to play father-guardian-of-his-daughter's-virtue when Tempe was a teenager, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to make up for it. Have a good walk?"

The usual commotion attending any return home ensued: Hank, having woken from his nap, was his usual fussy self and needed to be cajoled and cuddled into better humor; Christine had to have the coloring book pages and the play-doh menagerie she and her grandfather had completed exclaimed over and admired in detail. It was a good twenty minutes before the children were settled once more, and they could see Max to the door.

"You're sure you won't stay for supper?" Bones asked him. "There's tofu stir-fry on the menu, or Booth could fire up the grill. It's really no trouble."

"Thanks for the invitation, honey, but I'm beat. Grandkids are wonderful, but they take a lot out of an old guy."

She enveloped her father in a tight embrace and held on to him a heartbeat longer than was her wont. When they drew apart, Max smiled with his usual affection, but there was something forced now in his expression, and he looked at his daughter quizzically. "I know the 'thanks-for-helping-out-with-the-kids' hug, Tempe, and that one had a little more oomph to it. What's going on?"

She stared at her father a long moment, her jaw working to the side, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. Reading her tells, Booth would have sworn she was going to pass it off as nothing, but then, at the end of a day already packed with surprises, she said, "There was a little extra 'thank you,' Dad, for introducing me to rotational velocity, torque, and angular momentum."

Max took this in, his eyes never leaving his daughter's as though if he probed their depths long enough he could find the key to unlock her coded message. Booth felt for the man, and was trying to think of some way of giving him a hint, when it happened: Max's smile slowly widened and warmed again, evoking a matching smile from Bones, and Booth knew, watching them, that they had connected somehow, that for the two of them, in that moment, the present had fallen away and they were Dad and little Tempe again, playing on the swings. Max's nod of acknowledgement was so slight, Booth thought perhaps he had imagined it, and then Christine barreled up to her grandfather, waving the drawing she had made expressly for his refrigerator art gallery, and the moment was lost for good. Max accepted his latest tribute with a lavish display of gratitude, called out a last 'Good-bye, all,' and was gone.

"I love Grandpa," Christine announced, as the door closed behind him. "He's fun."

Booth followed her into the living area, and settled down beside her on the couch, little Hank on his lap. He pulled a pretend long face. "So, you didn't miss Mommy and Daddy at all?"

"No," she said plainly, her mother in miniature. "But I'm glad you're back. Can we read a story?"

Many Dr. Seuss books later, they sat down to their stir fry, and, from there, the evening unfolded in the usual way. It was well past eight before the children were tucked up and the house restored to order, and then, there were a number of phone calls to return, and emails to send. When Bones finally joined Booth in the bedroom, he wanted nothing so much as to be left to watch the ninth inning of the Phillies' game in peace. Seeming to sense this, Bones waited for the final put-out before she said, "Our conversation this afternoon left off at a very interesting juncture, from my point of view, at least. And, I know…" She raised a hand to postpone any objection. "…that it's too late tonight to take up the subject, but I'd just like your assurance that we will get back to it sometime in the not _too_ distant future."

He let out a sigh of relief. "You got it, Bones."

"And, I'd just like to add one thing, if I may."

" _One_ thing?" he verified.

"One." He gestured 'the floor is yours, take it away.' "Well, at the risk of sounding like a damaged record…"

"A _broken_ record, Bones."

"That's what I said."

"You said… Never mind. Go on."

She inhaled deeply, and began again. "At the risk of repeating myself in an aggravating manner, I would like to assure you once again, Booth, that you _are_ good. Whatever doubts you may entertain on that head, please believe that I have none."

"I appreciate that, Bones. Thanks. It means a lot." He swung his legs off the bed, and pushing his fists into the mattress, prepared to stand up.

"There's more."

"You said 'one' thing," he reminded her.

"It's still the same thing. It has two parts."

Of course it did. He settled back against the pillows. "Okay."

"In spite of our activities this afternoon, Booth, we're not children anymore, and we don't have to be bound by the limitations that were ours as children. You said that children need certainty, they need the world to be black or white, without shades of gray. But, we're adults now, and we don't have to think in terms of 'either / or.' Opposites can blend, they can be two interlocked parts of one whole."

He nodded. "It's what Dr. Cameron calls 'holding the paradox.' "

She lit up like the sparkler. "You've already talked about this in therapy!"

"Yeah, sure. That's the goal: to revisit childish ways of dealing with old problems, and rethink them using a grown-up perspective."

"Well." Her shoulders slumped, and she threw up her hands. "That's it, then. There's no need for me to say what you already know."

"Tell me anyway. It'll sound more official if you say it."

"You're sure? Then, the gist of it is this, Seeley Booth: you are _not_ a simple man, 'simple' in its original meaning, of course. You are good _and_ lucky. Sometimes more of one, sometimes more of the other, but always, _always_ both."

"You know what, Bones? Dr. Cameron couldn't have put it better himself. So, is that it now? Are we done? Can we finally call it a night?"

"That's it," she confirmed. "End of story."


End file.
